Chapter Text
Their convoy truck barreled through the dead of the freezing Russian midnight, its massive, flat frame about as aerodynamic as a brick. On the shitty dirt road its suspension creaked and rocked, tossing the operators inside like a salad with every pothole. Though the back door was closed it rattled on old hinges and clanged while pebbles ricocheted off the metal. And, sure, the cab was heated, but the passenger bay was separate, currently only warmed by the collective body heat of the 141 and cold enough to see their breaths. It had two bench seats running its length that used to be stainless steel before rusting away, replaced by unfinished wood planks on shelf supports now sanded smooth by constant use.
Ghost sat at the very back left, leaning into the corner with his arms crossed. Across the isle, laying like dominoes from front to back, slept Gaz, Horangi, and Soap. None of them were usually chummy enough to pile up like that, but exhaustion and desperation lowered their standards. The same thing happened eating an MRE in the field—the rations were obviously disgusting, but operatives scarfed them anyway because they’d be shaking starving and only had until the enemy started shooting again to get their fill. Beside Ghost, Roach bounced helplessly on a particularly loose section of bench, flailing between him and a dozing König on his other side (who clung to gear piled up front and conked out). A rumble of snores filled the space—Ghost longed to join them after such a shitshow of a mission, but his body was unwilling. Paranoid. He simply watched in the low light, hoping to catch sleep from one of the contagious yawns occasionally escaping his subordinates as he fiddled with his skull mask in his lap.
From the way his head drooped, Roach’s body was more than ready to collapse under its own weight. But he forced himself dutifully upright against the violent turbulence, doing his best not to bump the men to his either side. While it didn’t bother him at first, Ghost figured it was part of what kept him up when their shoulders whacked together. Roach then bounced off, being average in size compared to the hulking lieutenant, right into König who was even bigger. The Austrian most certainly minded, too socially impotent to say anything yet annoyed enough to sigh dramatically each time Roach disturbed his sleep. The sergeant seemed terribly guilty, unable to keep himself still on the creaking wood that catapulted him to and fro. At least his helmet kept him from being concussed by the bulletproof wall.
Finally, Roach managed a delicate balance and drifted off. His body pitched forward until his chin met chest, nose peaking out between his face mask and goggles, a quiet snore the only sound he’d made all day. Then Price, driving, plowed through a rocky patch and sent him flying into König again.
The giant hissed, “Scheiße! Please, Roach. I- I’m trying to sleep.” He sounded embarrassed to curse at someone he’d only known a week, but reached his breaking point at rock bottom below the anxieties. After a moment, he grumbled, “So winzig…”
Evidently, the stranger was unaware that Ghost sat awake. That was fine with him.
“Sorry,” Roach croaked. It sounded painful.
Back to erecting himself like a statue—Roach returned to the cycle of flicking up his goggles and rubbing bleary eyes; shaking the sleep away; and yawning, yawning, yawning. Ghost felt for him, felt lucky to have his own personal corner.
Price suddenly slowed, his muffled yelling from the cabin directed at a moose in the road. After a game of chicken it apparently moved and so did he, lead foot pushing the pedal to the floor. No one was fazed—save for poor Roach, who slid back against Ghost’s side like they rode a roller coaster. His helmet kept himself safe, but it clunked Ghost’s skull with little cushioning from the man’s balaclava.
“Sorry,” the sergeant repeated hoarsely. No doubt even mumbling felt like glass shards with how dry the freezing air was. Ghost ached for him; he’d use American Sign Language if they had enough light.
The lieutenant smiled beneath his head covering and whispered, “You’re alright. I’ll bet you five quid Price doesn’t even have a bloody license with the way he’s ripping around. Just lean on me.”
“Huh?”
“You’re exhausted, sergeant. Get some shut-eye. Lean on me.”
Roach whispered, too; however, that was because his voice went no louder rather than because of his conscientiousness. “I’ll keep you up. I don’t want to be in your space.”
“Look at those fucks across the way. They’re fine. I’ll live. You’re bumping into me, anyway; I’d prefer you cut it out. Something tells me big boy beside you would, too.”
“Bitte.”
Roach had no choice but to give in. Maybe his pride would take a hit, but his body leapt at the chance. Their shoulders collided and did not separate, warmth now shared between them. His legs swung into König’s space, but the operative simply maneuvered his in front. It would help keep the man still while minimizing their contact; Ghost was surprised he didn’t shy away instead. Maybe not—with how big he was, avoiding contact all together was impossible. Reluctantly, Roach’s head dipped down onto Ghost’s shoulder, pausing first to remove his bulky helmet. The sergeant’s hair smelled of sweat and sulfurous gunpowder; Ghost knew he reeked as well. They all did; if it were hotter the vehicle would smell like a barn. The lieutenant pulled his jacket tighter around himself.
Street lamps began whizzing past, although the road remained unpaved. The passenger bay stayed dark for the most part, as it had no windows except the grate on the back door to let in slivers of the infrequent orange light. They’d reach the safe house in an hour or so if everything went according to plan. König finally started snoring; now only two were awake.
Ghost closed his eyes, still unable to slip under.
“Shite mission,” Roach mumbled, mocking the lieutenant’s Cockney accent.
Peaking from under one eyelid, he replied, “Rest.”
“You can’t.”
Damn. Ghost wasn’t the only one observing.
“But you can. No use in having the both of us tired tomorrow.”
“No mission tomorrow. We’ll sleep in.”
Ghost figured Roach was able to make his own choices—if he wanted to keep fighting sleep to chat, so be it. Plus the company was nice, and he’d probably pass out sometime soon despite his efforts, anyway, especially considering the warmth building up from their body heat.
He groaned, “…It was a real shite one, wasn’t it?”
Although the injuries were minimal, with Soap finding himself shanked in the arm during close combat, they’d spent well over eighteen hours in the bitter cold. Mainly watching. Waiting out enemy squads until they fucked off for the evening and left only the night shift. Wasting precious energy staying warm without campfires so smoke wouldn’t give away their positions. Eventually, Ghost made the call for the taskforce to sneak in to grab the intel they were after, though the decision was a bit premature; two squads still remained. Soap and Gaz split off with the Captain and König close by to scour the main building, Horangi covering them by sniper scope. This left Ghost and Roach to sneak through some of the smaller offices.
Of course they got themselves into trouble. Nothing went tits-up, but he and the man now melting into his shoulder were under heavy fire. A bullet or two grazed Roach, cutting harsh lines across his kevlar. Worryingly, a guard had managed to nail him in the stomach as Ghost ordered him to round a corner first and blasted through many of the kevlar layers; luckily, the shot was from a bit farther than mid-range with some sort of pistol, odds favoring the bulletproof vest and not the weapon. Had it been an assault rifle he’d be all but torn in half—Ghost pushed the image out of his mind. He remembered seeing Roach deem the hallway clear and disappear, only to be blasted back onto the ground with the wind knocked out of him. Panicking, he aimed through his rifle sights from the concrete and scrambled to fire before getting double-tapped, ignoring the vicious recoil that rocked his armpit.
Target neutralized. Thank god.
What made Ghost feel worse—if he’d gone first, he might not have survived. He would have been a bigger target, would have hit the ground harder, would have been slower on the draw. So, in some cowardly way, he was glad the sergeant was the one who took the bullet. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Roach took the hit instead of his superior and now he couldn’t even sleep comfortably. And his lieutenant felt thankful. His unscathed lieutenant who got the comfy seat—not that he chose it on purpose when they rushed into the evac truck. Actually, Ghost had hung back to act as a meat shield in case they were shot at from behind; being a larger target meant he could cover more men with his broader bulletproof vest. That meant he got the last seat available, the one in the corner.
Soap was the one who retrieved the Russian intel. The pile of papers sat on the passenger’s seat in the cabin with Captain Price.
Surely a massive bruise spread up Roach’s abdomen, and medical would want to check for signs of organ damage once they returned to the safe house. Probably, from the fall, there’d be another purple contusion crawling from his ass up to his shoulder blades.
“I’m sorry I made that call earlier.”
“It’s okay, LT. We all thought they’d cleared out. Even Price gave you the go-ahead when you radioed.”
“I should have been more patient.”
“We got the intel, we lost no one. Premature call, sure, but we’re slick.”
“We’re lucky.”
“We handled it. We’ll learn from our mistake. But don’t agonize over shit that didn’t happen,” the sergeant coughed.
“Shit that could’ve happened, Roach. I’m sorry I ordered you into that hall.”
“So, I found a guy with a gun. It’s war. That tends to happen.”
“You could have been shot in the head.”
“Yeah, well a meteor could have struck me in battle, too. You scared of that now? What about if I had an aneurysm?”
“That’s not shit I can control.”
“If you insist on blaming yourself then do better next time. That’s more helpful than worrying yourself sick, LT.”
It worried Ghost that sending Roach first had the best possible outcome. It was the right call, even if their untimely perimeter breech wasn’t. Or maybe there were no right calls in a game of murder.
They lapsed into silence. Roach’s breathing slowed—probably asleep at last. Price’s driving made no improvements, nor did the road conditions. Another rough patch wobbled the hapless man back and forth, threatening to peel him from Ghost’s side. Cold air wormed between them, colder than before now that they’d had a chance to warm each other up.
Ghost wrapped an arm around Roach’s shoulders to hold him in place. They slotted together like puzzle pieces, the sergeant’s cheek now resting on the side of the lieutenant’s chest. Logically, that’s how it had to happen for him to hold Roach steady, but he was still surprised by the foreign touch. He held a girl like this once at the theater in secondary school. It was almost enough to let go, to throw Roach back at König’s mercy.
But König wasn’t merciful. He was a beast of the battlefield, a rampaging barbarian that wouldn’t stop wreaking havoc until an enemy managed to put him down. God help anyone unlucky enough to fall in his path, whether they be in combat or simply an annoyance after he was too tired to be meek. Maybe he had a soft spot deep down for allies, but the 141 barely knew the guy. He was trusted at an arms length because Laswell said they did, and when Laswell said ‘Jump,’ they asked ‘How high?’ The unease was mutual based on König’s silent nature.
Snores from the other three across the isle eased Ghost’s troubled mind. Sleeping operatives couldn’t notice their compromised position. Horangi was from KorTac as well as the Austrian, but more amicable. More gifted in the social sector. Easier for Soap to lean on as he drooled, although Ghost knew the man would assert that he distrusted the guy after they woke up. Again, exhaustion did funny things.
“You’re… cute, you know that?” Roach mumbled.
Ghost balked at the term. “Make sure medical checks you for brain damage, too.”
“Maybe I’m just worn out.”
“Then rest.”
“Mhm. But I never get you alone.”
Ghost felt his face warm. Quietly, firmly, he commanded, “Sergeant, I order you to rest.”
“You’ll have to use your drill instructor voice to scare me.”
“And make four new enemies? No way. Now rest.”
He could have shoved the man off. He should have shoved the man off. His own discomfort at holding him be damned, there was a power structure at play that made such physical contact dicey.
Ghost stopped himself; where was this feeling of forbidden-ness coming from? He was reading too far into the situation. Roach was tired. He was tired. The other operatives were practically doing the same thing, although they didn’t hold one another. They would wake up tomorrow and Roach would be his subordinate as always.
“It was funny listening you and Soap bicker like an old married couple.”
“This is insubordination.”
Roach was intent on pushing his luck. “It’s priceless how hysterical he gets when you rag on him for being Scottish. I think I side with Scotland over you dastardly Brits, though. They need to revolt against the UK and reunify like us Yankees did.”
“It’s all hogwash. And your misunderstanding of European history is quite frightening.”
“I was more of a PE kid rather than book smart. Good at math, though. But fuck trigonometry.” He paused to swallow. “You don’t actually believe the Brits were right, do you? Never struck me as overly patriotic.” His voice crumbled in on itself. His throat had been slit (stabbed?) somewhere along the line—Ghost couldn’t wring the story out of him, no matter how drunk they were when he tried.
“No, but I’ll die on any hill as long as Soap is at the bottom.”
Roach chuckled. Ghost couldn’t remember hearing the sound—the man’s pleasure usually showed itself in the corners of his eyes or as a pat on the back. Now a blush crept onto his cheeks. He felt like a teenager. It was undignified.
“You’re funny, too.”
“I’ll write you up if you don’t shut your eyes.”
“They’re closed.”
“Then shut your mouth.”
“Oh, shut it for me, Ghost. You’re all bark and no bite.”
They both knew that wasn’t usually true. But exhaustion was funny like that.
“You can’t even bark, bloody Mr. Bean.”
“I think you could make me…” he trailed, insult lost on his Yankee cable consumption.
“Did- did MacTavish give you Macallan from his secret flask or something?”
“No,” he laughed again. Twice in two minutes. “You love me, LT. You can’t deny it.”
Ghost gave in and let his face fall into Roach’s hair. It smelled no better, but smelled like him and was hot on the lieutenant’s face. He mumbled, “If this is love, I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Careful, Sanderson,” he warned.
“You love me, Riley.”
He found himself wishing Roach would scoot even closer, committing to using his chest as a pillow, possibly even throwing an arm across his midsection. He cursed under his breath as he felt himself pass the point of no return, stepping right over a boundary between lieutenant and sergeant that should never be crossed. Treading into the dangerous waters of homosexual behavior in the military. Of abusing his position. Ghost remained silent, one last line of defense to force those emotions back down. Like usual.
Thankfully, Roach reigned himself in. “Maybe I’ll head into town on our day off. I bet there’s ladies there who love a man in tactical gear. I don’t blame ‘em.”
“Just don’t catch anything, sergeant.”
Suddenly, Price hit a pothole so big Ghost figured the geezer’s vision needed checked. All six of them were thrown into the air, landing hard with loud complaints.
“I’ll skin you alive, Price!” Gaz threatened. Soap echoed the sentiment.
The boys from KorTac grumbled to themselves, too unfamiliar with the captain for him to tolerate their disrespect. Soap stuffed Horangi away towards Gaz, who shoved him back to the center. The man steadied himself by leaning forward into Roach’s personal space.
“Oh, can it back there! Consider yourselves lucky I’m taking it easy!”
Now the operators were wide awake. Roach removed himself before another street lamp illuminated the scene. Under the safety of the uproar, he leaned back over and asked, “Want to hit a bar or two with me, LT?”
Against his better mind, Ghost huffed, “Yeah, I do.”